


The Size of Hope

by GerbilofTriumph



Category: King's Quest (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Bruises, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, goblins make terrible friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24597745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GerbilofTriumph/pseuds/GerbilofTriumph
Summary: Mordon isn't certain what to make of the fairy tale king his goblin friends captured, and King Graham has no idea what to make of the huge and clumsy goblin who keeps running into his path. The two warily team up, but neither one belongs in the goblin kingdom, and some pain runs deeper than either expects.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	1. Seen

**Author's Note:**

> If you search the subtitle file - https://kingsquest.fandom.com/wiki/KQC2_transcript - there are a handful of scenes scripted but not included in which Mordack ( _nee_ Mordon) ventured through at least a small section of caves with Graham. They make the game's emotional core stronger, and I'm sad they're gone. So I've put them back, expanding canon around the fragments as necessary but with the main goal of leaving everything original mostly intact--just fluffed up here and there to fit.

The king wasn’t what Mordon expected.

The picture in the prize-winning book, so proudly displayed on the pedestal in the royal library, showed a skinny old man in a robe with a drooping face and limp hair. The man they’d brought in wasn’t anything like that. He was skinny, yes, but he wasn’t wearing a robe, and his hair wasn’t gray, and he had a sort of energy to him that the king in the story didn’t seem to have. But he did have a shiny hat, and Mordon supposed that was all you needed.

Anyway, it wasn’t like his friends were all that good at playacting their beloved stories. Mordon privately thought their tattered dresses and cracked wooden swords and lopsided hats weren’t worth the effort when compared to the pictures in the books. They couldn’t get the details right half the time. This man was just as bad at playing stories as the rest of them.

Still.

Even if he didn’t match the picture, he still _was_ the human king. And the king in the story had been terrible. Had let the piper lead the rats away and then locked the gates against him and not let him take his reward, and Breaking Promises was the worst thing someone could do. (Well, big promises like rewards of a kingdom. The other goblins insisted that breaking promises about letting Mordon play with them didn’t count.) So they’d locked the king in the deepest cell, in the maximum security basement with that magical unicorn. They’d even whispered if they should chain him up like the unicorn, just to be sure, but the king in the story had been mostly foolish and “finite,” whatever that meant. In the end, they trusted to the locked door. It was a good way to protect themselves from his cruelty and deception. It made the story _right_.

But Mordon peeked through the bars, sometimes, carefully. When he was sure the king wouldn’t see him. And the king didn’t _seem_ all that dangerous. He paced in circles and he scrubbed his hands through his hair (dark, wavy, not at all like the book, but sort of like the hair Mordon kept hidden under his helmet. That made Mordon happy, like maybe he and the king had something in common, like maybe Mordon was _worth_ something if he shared a trait with someone so important). Mostly, the king curled up on the little mattress clutching his stomach, or the jar he’d put one of the glowing lizards in, or the shiny crown that still glittered even though the king himself looked so grimy. He hummed to himself, or repeated strange rules that Mordon couldn’t follow, or—Mordon’s favorite—whispered familiar stories.

Stories ruled their lives in the goblin kingdom. But Mordon never seemed to fit in them. He was the wrong size for most of the costumes, and while he’d always wanted to play the hero, he was usually cast as the villain. Or, more often, not involved at all but made to go fetch something one of the players needed, or move something a player needed moved, or do absolutely _anything_ except play.

He liked listening to the king tell stories. Even if they were quiet. Even if they were probably just a means to pass those unending hours locked in darkness. They were still famous tales, soft and warm, with edges tousled and earmarked and gentle. He didn’t linger on the violent parts like the goblins liked to, and his human voice was lilting and kind compared to the growls of his friends. Mordon liked to lean against the cell door (he wouldn’t unlock it, wouldn’t come in and sit on the mattress next to the king, no matter how much he wanted to, because that would be _dangerous_ ), and forget about the stone armor that chafed his arms, and the bruises from when his friends kicked him, and the tight feeling he got in his chest whenever he thought too hard about what the human king saw above ground, away from the damp caves.

Maybe the king was weaving a deception now. Some horrible web that would lead to destruction. But Mordon thought maybe the deception was worth it if it stopped him earning another bruise or four for a couple hours.

* * *

Sometimes, Graham felt like he was being watched.

He told himself he was being paranoid. He had been _kidnapped._ By _goblins_. What did he expect? He glared at the glimmering salamanders lining his cell. It was probably just them, blinking at him in the gloom. Yes, that was it.

…no, that wasn’t it.

There was something in the hall. He was sure of it. He never caught sight of anything, but he could sometimes hear that gentle scrape of stone armor as someone snuck around in the darkness. Once or twice he gripped the cold metal bars of the locked door and craned his neck, trying to see, but…nothing. Whoever it was could stay very still and very quiet when they wanted.

He rubbed the bruise on his hip. He had tripped and fallen when the goblins had dragged him down here, but his hands had been bound behind him then and he hadn’t been able to catch himself. He’d hit the ground hard. The bruise still stung if he put any decent pressure on it, but it was more of a mild annoyance at this point, the edge of the pain softening. Based on that slow easing of pain (time was otherwise meaningless in this relentless dark), he guessed it had been several long days since the capture.

The bruises on his legs and arms were fresh and sharp, though. The goblins were giving him chores to do, making him clear spiderwebs or sweep endless corridors that never got cleaner (because _they were made of dirt_ ), or wipe down splintery wooden steps, or feed the terrifying rat kept in the cell next to his. Normally he was left to his own devices while he did their tasks, but they apparently remembered to be afraid of him when it was time to lock his cell door again. They scrupulously shook him down for any weapons or tools that would help him escape. By literally shaking him. They held his legs and flipped him over and rattled him until his pockets emptied out. They riffled through whatever fell and took whatever they thought looked like he shouldn’t have. His collection of bruises kept growing.

His collection of items was growing, too. He thumbed over the little pile of things again, trying to think up some way to use them. All in all, it was a mediocre supply of junk. Scraps of paper torn from books, worn coins that the Merchant would be delighted to take from him, chopsticks too small and pathetic to break the weighty padlocks that held him and his friends in this prison….

_There was definitely someone outside the door watching him._

He kept his back to the door, drumming his fingers anxiously along one of the chopsticks. They wouldn’t make a good weapon—obviously, or else the goblins would have taken them during one of the shakedowns—but even a slim metal stick was better than nothing. Should he confront whoever was out there? Or ignore them? They didn’t seem to want to hurt him (or was he just saying that because they hadn’t _yet_ ), but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to scare them away either.

Finally, he said, without turning, “I hear you.”

He heard nothing, but it was the nothing of someone trying to stand perfectly still and not breathe.

“Are you watching me?”

Still nothing. Ever so slowly, he turned, holding the chopstick tight in his fist behind his back. He didn’t see anything out in the gloom beyond the locked door, but that meant little in this oppressive darkness.

“I just want to talk.”

He waited, then stepped forward once, stopped, waited. Still nothing, no movement, no goblin or human responded.

“Can you understand me?”

He started to feel like maybe he was losing his mind. There was nothing there in the first place. But…it still seemed…. Slowly, he reached out for the bars with his free hand, the other shifting into a firmer grip on the hidden chopstick.

“I know you’re there.”

He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure at all. It was so _still,_ so _silent_. He was being silly _._

All the tension in his shoulders drained out and he staggered back, leaning against the stone table, staring blearily into nothing. No one responded. Nothing was there.

_Nothing shifted, nothing’s armor scraping ever so softly against the tunnel wall._

Nerves shivered down Graham’s spine, but externally he revealed nothing. Didn’t move. Neither did the darker shadows outside the door. If he squinted, Graham thought he might see the dim shapes of something crouched against the wall. He and the goblin stared at each other, eternal minutes slipping past.

Until Graham’s empty stomach, fed only with slimy prison porridge and questionable meat, cramped cruelly. Graham curled forward with a quiet moan and broke eye contact with the shadows. Immediately, something scrambled away, and Graham staggered forward, clutching the cell bars. He watched the goblin flee down the tunnel. Were the shadows playing tricks, or did the shape seem…too big? Almost…. His chopstick clattered on the floor, forgotten, as he thought distractedly about stories and secrets. It rolled past his boots into one of the glowing salamanders which licked it speculatively and chirped.

Graham snapped out of his reverie. “Aaah, Freckles, don’t—you’ll get it all slimy,” he said, retrieving the chopstick. He had an escape to plan, and there wasn’t a point to thinking about sneaking shadows. There were bigger things to worry about.

* * *

Graham could smell it first. It smelled damp, but the good, green sort of damp. The kind that smelled like life. Not the caves’ usual decaying reek. He practically floated off his front toes trying to track it, moving as fast as he dared—never running, never. They might not like that.

Above him, hanging around in little cracks and corners and crevices, there were always one or two goblins. They never seemed to pay him attention. They were lounging or dozing, feet kicking aimlessly in the lazy manner of the entirely unconcerned. But they were still there, and they could still take offense to anything he was doing, and they could conceivably drag him back to his cell with those achingly rock-hard hands and their sharp-as-cut-glass spears, and they could stop letting him out again.

No, it wouldn’t do to run in front of them and attract their attention.

As he hurried down this new tunnel ( _slower, slower, eaaaasy_ ), the warm, stagnant cave air started to break up. He felt a chill across his face, as bracing as getting hit with a snowball. He could hear rain.

_Can’t be. We’re miles down._

And yet, when he rounded the corner, there it was. A vast hole high above him, so much higher than the tallest building in town. Rain poured through it. The heavy gray monsoon sky was easily the most fantastic thing he’d ever seen. He gaped at it, breathing deeply, purging the musty cave air for fresh, beautiful Daventry air. His knees wobbled with excitement and jangling nerves, and he took a cautious step forward, searching the cavern, confirming he was alone at least for now.

Home. So, so close—but, as he eyed the surrounding walls with growing frustration, unreachable. Not a single vine or root grew anywhere low enough for him to even dream of reaching. The walls slanted inward. And he was hardly the best freestyle climber. It had only been a few months back that he’d climbed that magic beanstalk and that—well, best not to think about all the near misses _that_ had held, and that had been with sicky sap from the stalk covering his hands and practically gluing him to the leaves.

He could yell for help, but he didn’t know where this pit was located. Hadn’t seen it in the castle’s vicinity, or anywhere near the town. The goblins would be more likely to hear him before a royal guard, and that…he shivered, rubbing his arms, remembering the bite of tight ropes…that wouldn’t be good.

But he couldn’t make himself walk on yet. He sat, knees drawn up to his chest, back pressed against the gentle curve of the cave wall so nothing could sneak up on him, and he watched the distant storm clouds roll across the sky, listening to the rumble of thunder and feeling the cleansing drip of rainwater against his cheeks.

Home.

He wanted to be _home_.

* * *

Surprisingly, Graham did see that shape again. The creature that had been staring at him in his cell. He was certain it was the same one. It moved the same way, and he had the same gut-deep sense that something weird was going on. Weirder than a goblin underground city with a fixation on fairy tales.

He’d seen the goblins fighting each other. Hitting each other, jumping on each other. He was never sure if they were playing or not, but this time it didn’t seem like play. The familiar one crouched low, almost subservient, and yet it still seemed massive. It tagged along behind the other smaller and faster ones, awkward in its stone armor, often getting struck and kicked and yelled at for its trouble.

Graham was supposed to be doing chores, supposed to be cleaning some corridor or other. But he was well out of the main prison paths, sneaking around in places he was certainly not meant to be. Through barricades he’d broken down, through tunnels that felt disused. He pushed himself closer against the wall nervously. If the goblins walking past him turned, he would be spotted. He’d triggered a few lockdowns already by smuggling an array of loose items that could act like, and were in fact used like, weapons to Amaya. But he figured being caught in this area would spark more than just a lockdown. If getting caught yelling for help in that rainy cavern might have landed him in ropes again, that was probably nothing compared to getting caught in these unsupervised and possibly escapable tunnels.

In the end, the risk wasn’t worth it. There wasn’t much to see. They made the large goblin do some meaningless tasks, kicking it if it didn’t move fast enough (and it never moved fast enough). It carried some heavy pipework around, but it got more jeers for the feat, no praise.

Graham frowned—despite everything, despite his own bruises and fear and frustration, he pitied it. It was doing its best. But its best still didn’t seem to be meeting the others’ expectations. And that felt distressingly familiar.

Graham pulled back when they made to leave the area, ducking out of sight. The large goblin tagged along behind the others, darting up narrow cracks in the cavern walls that Graham knew he could never manage to climb on his own. He was left in the gloom and the silence, thoughtful and alone and, for this one moment, safe and unguarded and ready to explore new options. Maybe he had discovered something that would lead home.


	2. Found

Mordon had guard duty again. Not of the fairy tale prisoners. That was a quality position. Being so near the Gingerbread Man Baker, or the Wicked Witch, or especially the king himself—guarding them was exciting and dangerous and fun and thus meant for better goblins than himself.

No, Mordon’s guard duty consisted of standing a little distance ahead of the goblin king’s castle and looking as important as he could. He didn’t even get a spear. He just had to stand there. He took it as seriously as he could, but he felt himself curling back down into his crouch when his friends came by. His friends had gotten to be in the fairy tale prison. The fun job. They were energized, excited by being so close to the stories.

Maybe it wasn’t all that surprising when they started hitting him. Maybe one of them half-remembered some mistake Mordon had made earlier, or maybe they didn’t like how Mordon was standing, or maybe they just (he thought this extra quietly) didn’t like Mordon. With one thing or another, they found it was more fun to start thumping him. It turned into a game, like most things with the goblins did. One would hit him, and he would turn to face them, and then one would thump him from behind, and he would whirl, but he couldn’t fight back because then they’d really be angry, and if they got angry….

Mordon felt hot tears racing down his cheeks beneath his helmet, but he fiercely blinked them back. It was just another night in the kingdom. It was just how it was.

But then, a shadow loomed against the wall, flinging all of them into sharp darkness.

The shadow was huge, curved, _deadly._

Dragon.

The goblins around Mordon screamed and fled, scrambling away, vanishing down tunnels. But Mordon stood frozen. A little voice in the back of his head wondered how a dragon of that size would fit in this place, how it would come all the way here without being seen or heard by anyone else.

And then he saw the truth standing across the gaping hole the goblins called a moat. Not a dragon. Or at least, not the full sized one the shadow might have led them to think. It was just a baby dragon. A tiny little useless thing. Held in front of a light to cast a shadow to frighten people who weren’t willing to look beyond first glance. And the person holding the baby dragon to the light was…

_The king._

The king was _here_.

The king was _out of his locked room_.

The fairy tale king and his shiny hat had come out of the darkness, and the king had tricked the others, just like the king in the story had done to the pied piper. Mordon wasn’t sure what to do, and he felt the panic rising in his chest. His friends were gone, and the king was standing across the moat looking…yes, looking directly at Mordon.

Should he run, too? Should he get help? The king was dangerous, deceptive, clever. What help could his friends even give him? Would they hit him and call him a liar about the baby dragon? They would probably just claim all the success if they did catch the king, wouldn’t mention that Mordon was the only one who had (bravely? stupidly?) stood there.

But…but the king knew the stories…and….

Mordon raised a hand in wary greeting, out of some reflexive desperate instinct more than anything, and the king, after a long, thoughtful pause, did the same. A gentle hand, raised to greet him, to acknowledge him. Mordon hesitated a moment longer, but then the king _smiled_ at him, just a little bit.

Mordon hadn’t ever been smiled at before. Just bared teeth and growls and insults and usually a kick or several. This felt…nicer. Nice enough that he wanted another smile. He made a decision—good or bad, he didn’t know, but it was his choice, at least. He raised a finger to the king, telling him to wait (imagine, Mordon, asking a _king_ to wait!), and scampered off to find the drawbridge crank.

As the king crossed the bridge, Mordon thought again about running away, but…this felt too important.

And he wanted another one of those smiles.

So he crouched, fidgeting, at the edge of the castle entrance, and then the king was _next to him_ and his shiny hat was still glittering in the light, and Mordon secretly thought that the king’s crown was better than the goblin king’s crown. Just a little bit.

“Hi…I’m Graham,” the king said. He looked apprehensive, but he stayed, he waited. And that was strange and unexpected and foolish and fascinating.

Mordon cautiously replied, “I am…Mordon.”

The king—Graham—startled, stepping back a pace. “You…speak my language?”

“Mmhmm.” He could read it, too, a bit. He’d taught himself as best he could, hoping that if he could read from the books of fairy tales (always written in the language of humans), and translated it for his friends, they might like him more. Like they liked the goblin king, who had books upon books and held reading parties where he would read out the stories and the goblins would act them for him. Somehow, the ability to read didn’t make Mordon more popular. It was only magical when the goblin king read the stories.

The king was looking at him intently. Mordon crouched lower, more like his goblin friends would want. “You’re pretty big for a goblin,” the king mumbled, apparently to himself instead of to Mordon.

But Mordon was used to not being spoken to. “You…want to see Goblin King?” he asked. Why else would the king—no, _Graham_ —be here?

“Yes. How can I find him?”

Mordon twisted his long fingers together in terrified thought—but he had gone this far, and the king hadn’t hurt him. And maybe the human king had something important he had to tell the goblin king. That was in the stories, too. Kings with daughters they needed marrying, or kingdoms to give away, or other important things that were too big for Mordon. So, probably, he would be doing the right thing by the book by showing Graham where to go.

You couldn’t go against the story, after all.

“Follow me,” Mordon said, and loped off into the darkness, taking twists and turns down the warren of tunnels that made up the goblin’s inner court. Graham hesitated for a mere moment before stumbling after him, made clumsy by darkness.

* * *

The goblin was not what Graham had expected.

For the first time, Graham could see him unobstructed by shadows and distance. For the first time, he could stand next to him. For the first time, he thought that if Mordon stopped crouching, he would be of a height with Graham. Perhaps taller. For the first time, Graham’s thoughts started to tell of something all together too distressing—he shoved the idea away. How tall was Acorn, after all? How tall had Achaka— _no, stop that, don’t you dare think about that._

They walked in silence through the roughly hewn corridors, taking turns that Graham, had he been on his own, probably wouldn’t have even noticed. They slipped from shadow to shadow, Mordon just as keen to avoid company as Graham.

 _This_ , Graham thought, _is the worst idea. I’m following a goblin I met three minutes ago to face some unknown enemy on his territory just so I can try to, what, talk him into letting me go?_

Still.

Mordon, despite being a goblin, didn’t seem like the others (and not just because of the height). Hadn’t mocked Graham. Hadn’t threatened him with any violence (yet).

Graham was curious, and Graham was desperate, and Graham was willing to play along. Mordon might be leading him into a trap, or he might not be, but after watching the other goblins abuse him, Graham felt a stubborn need give the goblin a chance.

_This is definitely the worst idea._

“Like your hat,” Mordon said, softly.

“Um, thank you,” Graham said, surprised.

Mordon stiffened. Apparently he hadn’t meant to speak it out loud.

“I have another hat,” Graham said. “No, I suppose it’s _had_ another hat.” He paused, leaning against the wall. The nerves and the exhaustion and a nagging ache in the back of his throat were all catching up with him, biting into him. _Not a good time, Graham._ “I don’t know that I’ll ever see it again,” he continued, trying to hide his breathlessness with an airy nonchalance. Trying not to show weakness, like he could distract Mordon with conversation until he felt like could walk again without feeling as though his knees were going to give out.

Mordon was staring. At least, Graham thought he was. The helmet made it hard to be sure. He braced himself, certain he was going to be tackled, that this was it, that he had made the wrong choice— “You…sad about other hat?” Mordon asked.

 _Oh._ Graham nodded, rubbing at his throat absently, relief making him feel like his knees really _were_ about to give out. “Yeah, I am. It was special to me. It had a big red feather in it. My mom gave it to me before I went to go become a knight.”

“Mom gave it.” Mordon seemed to be thinking hard about that. It took a long time for him to connect what he wanted to say. “Goblins…don’t have those. Goblins are big family. All the same.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment, but Mordon didn’t seem to want to let the idea go. “What else does hat have? Like mine?” He gestured to his helmet.

Graham smiled wryly at that, which Mordon seemed to like since the goblin straightened up another fraction of an inch and stepped a little closer to hear the answer: “No, not like your helmet. It’s blue, and I guess it’s a bit tattered. It’s made of cloth, not stone like yours. Do you ever take yours off?”

“Goblins hate Mordon’s face.”

“Do they now?” Graham bit his lip. “Why is that? Where are you from?”

“Grew up here. Goblins are family.”

Not a helpful answer. Could he ask Mordon to take off his helmet? Or would that cause some sort of etiquette meltdown? Mordon had been helpful so far, but Graham was still fully aware of the consequences of upsetting him—he didn’t carry a spear, but it wouldn’t be hard for him to bring Graham down with the weight of that stone armor, and he could have other things with him, like a dagger or something. Best to keep quiet.

But Mordon was still thinking. “Where hat gone? Could we get it?”

“One of your…friends took it away, when I first came. I haven’t seen it since. It could be anywhere.”

“Or could be here.”

Graham perked up a little. “Why would you think that?”

“Guards from then, come here lots.”

Graham thought about that for a moment, but then decided against it. Looking for his hat was just too ridiculous a risk, no matter how much he wanted it back. That would land him back in his not-so-cozy pit of a cell, maybe this time with a few extra restrictions tied in place. “That’s okay,” he told Mordon. “It’s not important.”

“It is,” Mordon said, a little stubbornly. “You want. We could…”

“No, it’s fine. Maybe after I get a chance to talk to the king, we can think about it. But right now, you’re with me. Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

Mordon couldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder as they walked, and every time excitement flickered through his heart, not unlike the jolting feeling of accidentally touching hot metal. This was better than playing. This was real. He was walking with _the king._ And the king wasn’t wearing a tattered costume and carrying badly painted props: the king was _real._

And Mordon wasn’t playing a villain. For the first time since he could remember, someone wanted him. The king had even said so. “You’re with me.” That _meant_ something. It had to. Words spoken mattered. He practically floated down the cave, hardly thinking about where they were going but thinking about costumes and plays and heroes and monsters and—

His helmet suddenly felt like it was too tight, and his armor felt like it was rubbing even worse than ever before, pinching his elbows. Graham was only still with him because Graham didn’t know about monsters. Didn’t know about what was under Mordon’s helmet. If he knew, he’d hate Mordon. Like the goblins did. He’d want to leave, like the goblins did.

Mordon bit down so hard on his tongue that his eyes watered. He just _knew_ this was going to go wrong. It always did.


	3. Buried

Some of the castle tunnels could carry sounds quite far, Graham realized. It made him uneasy. He could hear all sorts of things as they walked. He could hear low murmurs of other goblins (hopefully far away), could hear water dripping down and splashing into hidden underground pools, could hear the chittering chirp of those glowing salamanders as they scampered over walls. He was aware of how his boots rang against the stone, like that noise could pin him down as something that didn’t belong.

It perhaps wasn’t surprising that he heard the voice, then, since he was listening so carefully to shifting shadows. The voice itself, though, that was surprising, and he stopped, heart pounding in his throat.

Was that… _Manny_?

Positively inconceivable. Absolutely not. And yet. And yet, Graham had always known Manny had something to do with the kidnapping, hadn’t he? Or at least, suspected it, and this might be the proof he needed. He didn’t know why Manny would be here, didn’t know who he would be talking to, but it was certainly his lilting voice, coy and snide and manipulative, echoing gently along this side tunnel. Mordon and Graham had just passed it—it wasn’t on the way to the goblin king, it wasn’t important, but suddenly Graham very much wanted to see what was on the other end of it.

He glanced at Mordon. Suppose Graham did find Manny in these tunnels. Suppose he did confront him. This might be his only chance to do so, assuming Manny was really here and Graham wasn’t just imagining things. But if Mordon was with him, if Mordon saw Manny, if Manny had wrapped the goblins in that deceitful web of his…things could go wrong, fast.

Graham didn’t want Mordon to have to choose between loyalties. Especially because Graham thought he would probably lose that fight.

And, quietly, he wanted to keep Mordon as far away from Manny as possible anyway. He felt a curious need to keep the little (okay, not so little) goblin from that treacherous knight and his lies. Silly, perhaps. But if there was a chance their paths hadn’t crossed before, there wasn’t any reason to subject Mordon to that sort of manipulation.

_Right. That’s an easy decision. Give it up, Graham. You’ve got more important things to worry about. Your friends need you. The Feys won’t make it another day and you know it. Find the king. Don’t get distracted. Find the king._

But…but hearing that voice had sent a horrible crackle down his spine. Made him think of things lost.

Wouldn’t seeing Manny be proof enough? He wouldn’t need to confront the knight, he would just need to see. And then he would _know_. The not knowing was the problem. Graham couldn’t act on a suspicion, not even against Manny: he couldn’t live with himself if he was somehow wrong. The question of who would do this to him, who would try to kill him in such a cruel, calculating way— _he had to know._

Decision made.

“Stay here,” Graham said. “I’ll be right back.”

“What?” Mordon looked startled, even with the mask. Horrified, even.

“Stay here,” Graham repeated. “I’ve got to do something. I’ll be right back.”

“You…you’re leaving me?”

“Just for a minute.”

“No!” Mordon’s hands clawed at his helmet, like he was going to rip it off, before dropping them again.

“Mordon….” _Oh, no, what have I done, he’s going to jump me, this is it, I’ve ruined everything._

“No one wants Mordon. Everyone always leaves.” Mordon was choking back tears, and he curled into himself even further, smaller and smaller, and his arms were covering his head like he was being attacked. “I am always left. No one wants me. I…I’m a monster.”

“Oh! Oh, no, no, that’s not it,” Graham said, relief slumping his shoulders. He tried that smile, the smile that Mordon seemed to like so much, and he knelt at Mordon’s level. _He deserves better._ “Mordon, it’s okay. Stay calm. I don’t think you’re a monster. You’re helping me, and I appreciate that, really. I’m not leaving you. I’ll be right back.”

“Promise?” Mordon snuffled.

“I promise.” Without thinking, he reached out and touched Mordon’s bruised arm, the lightest of affirmations, and then he turned and hurried down the side tunnel, leaving the goblin stunned and silent and alone.

* * *

Somehow, being alone added a whole new level of stress. Graham padded cautiously down the hall, pressed as close to the wall as possible. At least with Mordon, they could have pretended like he was being escorted somewhere by a guard. Now, though, it was abundantly clear that he was escaping.

The tunnel felt deserted. He couldn’t hear his “best friend” anymore. Maybe Manny had left, or had never been there in the first place, and this was a fool’s errand. He pushed on, wary of every soft sound.

The pale colors of the illuminated salamanders and mushrooms started to give way to a warmer, more familiar sort of light. Flickering torchlight brightened the tunnel with each step, until he found himself at the entrance to a library. Empty of anything but books and stories. Long banners hung from the shelves with illustrations from favored tales.

He was disappointed and desperately relieved at the same time.

In the center of the room stood a pedestal with what seemed like a special book on it. It was marked as some sort of prize winner, and Graham, after considering his options, stepped forward to have a look, curious about what goblins would treasure so highly.

He was startled to realize that he recognized it. When he had first been captured and brought into this underground kingdom, he had stood before some goblin in a rather impressive hat (a goblin Graham suspected might be more important than he’d assumed at the time). The goblin had compared Graham to this book—compared the real king of Daventry to the little illustrated king.

Idly, Graham flicked pages, skimming the story. He thought he recognized pieces of it. It described a kingdom overrun with rats, and a useless king who did nothing but make wishes to get rid of them without looking for any real solutions. And when a solution magically appeared, the town made eager promises to their savior and then failed to deliver on any of them. Justifiably, the whole village was magically stolen away by the piper with an enchanting flute….

_Graham remembered the flute playing goblin._

He could picture the goblin standing on the rooftops of Daventry’s town, trilling and dancing like the piper in the illustrations _._ He wouldn’t forget it in a hurry—that goblin had cracked the flute over Graham’s head during the kidnapping. And here, the same flute, played during a similar kidnapping.

He gaped at the page, at the illustrated villagers vanishing into the caves. This person looked like Bramble. That one might be Chester, in the right light. And the one over on this page was wearing what could be Amaya’s blacksmithing apron. His stomach dropped, and he felt a clammy chill crawl across his skin.

With a shaking hand, he turned back to the front of the book, to the title page he had cheerfully ignored just a minute ago.

Written and illustrated by… _Manny_.

_“Once, in a town just like the one you’re imagining, there was a beautiful castle that stood high on a hill.”_

Graham’s hand curled into a fist.

Manny had known exactly what to do, had written a story with just enough injustice to incite the story-obsessed goblins to action. Of course they would want to play out this story, this entertaining tale, and punish the sly villagers who didn’t respect the piper.

And Manny wouldn’t have to do a thing once this story was written. He could sit back and watch as the goblins had their fun. And, to them, it was fun. Graham had seen dozens of examples of playacting by now. Even though they took it completely seriously, even though they hoped some magic would flourish and the frog would transform into a prince, it was still a game. He was still just a toy.

And if they forgot to feed their toy—or, more accurately, if someone broke the food supply line—the goblins wouldn’t notice or care. Graham was a character to tip out of a box and throw away when they got bored. Like the goblin they’d locked in a room to play Rumpelstiltskin until he could spin straw to gold, that poor skeleton he’d found hidden away and forgotten with nothing but a rusted spinning wheel and a towering pile of hay. Not flesh and blood to goblins in the midst of their play. Magic and words.

He closed the book with a thump. So, Manny was fighting with stories.

_I can do that, too. I’m_ good _at telling stories._

A story got them in this mess. A story might get them out again.

But he needed to be sure he could do it right. That he could weave the same magic that the goblins loved so much. He went to the shelves. If these books were elevated, kept here in a royal library, they were probably best to replicate as he spun his own. He’d only have one chance at this.

He was still feeling jangled and raw, so when he pulled out the first book and found it had nothing to do with fairy tales, he swore. He didn’t have a lot of time, and a book detailing various goblin pranks was hardly useful. He glanced at some illustration of baby swapping between humans and goblins, and angrily dropped the book, desperate to find something more helpful. Changeling stories were not what he wanted.

_Changeling stories._ He stomped across the room, muttering under his breath as he searched for something more useful than _changeli—_

He froze.

_Changeling stories._

_If Mordon would stand up straight…_

Graham whirled, cloak swirling around him. The book had fallen open to that drawing of a human and a goblin exchanging places. His heart was pounding so hard in his ears that he almost didn’t notice the sounds of approaching goblins, but at the last possible instant he realized he was about to have company. He could hear the squeak of a door opening somewhere in the room. ( _What door? The room didn’t have a door, did it?_ )

There wasn’t time to get the book. He dove behind a reading desk, hands pressed over his mouth, cloak wrapped around his knees, out of sight and silent. He hoped.

Goblin footsteps were light and quick. Their leather-wrapped feet made practically no sound on the stone floor as they walked, but their stone armor made some scraping noises so he could sort of track where they were in the room.

There were multiple goblins, he thought. At least two.

_This is it. I’m going to be caught._

They were coming closer to his hiding place. They were talking happily amongst themselves, and then they were suddenly silent, and Graham thought, _Zards, they know something’s wrong. They’ve seen something. I’m dead._ And if he was dead, his friends were, too. They wouldn’t get out of this, and he hadn’t even had a chance to try.

Someone leaned against the desk.

He pressed his hands harder against his mouth. He didn’t dare breathe. Everything seemed completely frozen, except for his heart, which wouldn’t stop racing. It was going to give him away: they would hear it thundering in his chest, how could they not…?

And then they were walking away, laughing again. They meandered down the hall, pushing each other and tripping each other and causing trouble.

Hours passed—or, more likely, a minute or two—before Graham eased himself from his hiding place. He inhaled sharp and desperate, lungs aching, knees like jelly, dizzy and weak and pathetic. He couldn’t make himself stand yet. He willed his nerves to calm again, feeling the ghostly imprint of his own fingertips where he’d pressed them against his cheeks.

He noticed the room was different—subtly, in a way he might not have noticed were he not sitting still. He blinked, shook his head, focused. Realized. When he’d entered the library, he’d been sure it was a dead end, but now he could see that one of the bookcases was slightly ajar—a secret door, like that out of a mystery story. Just open a crack, barely noticeable. The goblins had probably meant to close it behind them but hadn’t pressed hard enough.

And the book about the goblin pranks, the changeling story, was no longer on the floor. Not back in its place on the shelf. Gone with the goblins, and Graham wondered if he’d seen it in the first place or if his nervous mind, twisted up with stories and ideas, had conjured it from nowhere and taken it away again.

Briefly, selfishly, he wished it was the latter. But the secret sat in his gut, gnawing his empty stomach. A shroud of stone. A size that didn’t fit.

And that…that…

_I need to get back to Mordon,_ he thought. _But...what can I possibly say? What if I’m wrong? What might he do? What can I do?_

Manny might still be here. Might be down that secret tunnel. Graham’s initial reason for coming down this path was still viable. And the delay might also give him the time to find the words he needed. He risked losing everything here, he knew. Every step he took could lead him to safety. Or to something deadly. Lives were depending on him making the right choice. Not getting distracted, not taking unnecessary risks. Bramble, Wente, Amaya, Chester, Muriel, the Merchant, Mr. Fancycakes, and now…

Now someone else might need him, too.


	4. Lost

Waiting was the _worst_.

Mordon paced back and forth, dancing to the mouth of the tunnel and stepping down it a pace or two before shrinking back again. If he was wanted, he would have been invited. If Graham was going to come back, he would have done so by now. Mordon wasn’t wanted. Was abandoned.

Graham wasn’t any better than the king in Manny’s story.

But he was. He had been nice. Had smiled, hadn’t hit, hadn’t yelled, hadn’t been cruel. Was better.

But he left Mordon. Mordon was always left. Mordon, and his stupid face and his stupid hair and his stupid clumsy oversized body that tripped and fell and made a mess of everything.

Ohhh, what to do, what to do. Mordon hovered anxiously a few steps down the tunnel, then came back.

Mordon, always left. Never wanted. But Graham said they were doing this together, said they would go together. Did he really mean it? Maybe Mordon needed to prove his value to the king, like the piper had to the townsfolk in Manny’s wonderful book. But what did Graham want that he didn’t have, something that Mordon could give him? What could a goblin even offer a king? A snack? A spear? Was taking him to the goblin king enough? Probably not—it would have to be something bigger than that, something special.

But…but that never worked with the other goblins. He gave them all they wanted, did everything they asked, and it still didn’t help. They still didn’t like him ( _stupid face, stupid hair_ ).

Graham was different. Graham was kind.

Graham had left him.

What to do.

As he waited, as he paced, as he crouched, he heard footsteps. He straightened, delighted—Graham _was_ coming back!

He sank back down again when he realized he heard goblinese. His friends were coming, not Graham. Had they captured the king? Mordon’s fingers twisted nervously, waiting, watching, lurking in the shadows.

They didn’t have the king. They had a book. Mordon let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. They couldn’t read it. Didn’t know the letters. They were passing it between themselves, flipping pages, looking at illustrations. Finally, bored, one of them tossed it behind them. It bounced, spine cracking—Mordon flinched at the sound—and sprawling open on some page near the middle.

He wondered nervously if he should confront them about hurting a story, if he should threaten to _tell_ on them. It would be an excuse to get back at them for hitting him. His hands were hot and sweaty, and he could feel his hair standing on end beneath his helmet.

Helmet.

Hat.

They had the king’s hat. One of his friends was wearing it at a jaunty angle, barely hooked over his helmet. It was swinging wildly, like it was going to fall off at the next step. He could see the red feather that meant so much to the king.

Before his nerves could get the better of him, Mordon stepped out of the shadows. “Hey,” he said in goblinese, voice quiet and cracked. “Hey, wait.”

The two goblins stopped, looked at him impatiently. “Why are you here? You don’t belong here.”

“Th-that hat. That’s…”

They waited, but Mordon couldn’t seem to find the words. He stopped, feeling small.

They glanced at each other, then the one wearing the hat plucked it off. “This?”

“Can I…I want…” Mordon’s fingernails drove into his palms, cutting little crescents, and the pain made him stand a fraction taller. “I want that hat.”

“Do you? Why should I give it to you?” The goblin lazily spun it on his finger, the feather fluttering. “It’s from the fairy tales. It’s important.”

_But you’re not important. You’re the worst goblin. You can’t even stand guard with the fairy tales. You can’t do anything right. You don’t deserve to wear the costumes, to play the stories._

_Play the stories._

“It’s not important.”

“Huh?”

“It’s worthless.”

“The king had it,” the goblin said, hackles raising as he crouched low, primed for leaping, tackling, biting. “Don’t insult me. It’s important.”

“It isn’t,” Mordon insisted, even though it made him feel sick to say it. This was a lie. And people who told lies in stories got hurt. But didn’t Hansel tell a lie to the witch, told her he was eating all the food when he wasn’t, so he wouldn’t get turned into gingerbread? “He wasn’t wearing it when you took it. The crown’s what’s important. That hat…that’s like…” Mordon stood straight and tall. With his friends crouched, he seemed to fill the tunnel. “That’s like Cinderella’s peasant dress. It’s a peasant hat. It’s junky and unwanted. It’s already been replaced with a crown.”

“The human king likes it,” the goblin said, but he looked at the hat a little doubtfully. “He was upset when we took it.”

“Because it’s the story,” Mordon said. “You hafta tell the story in order. Even the boring parts. That hat. That’s useless. That’s no power. That’s weak. You took it from him easy because he didn’t really want it anymore. Trash. You’re trash if you wear it.”

“ _Don’t insult me,_ ” the goblin roared, about to pounce, to hurt. But he stopped. He glared at Mordon. “I’m important,” he said. He looked at the hat, and almost looked like he was going to crumple it in his hands, but instead he lazily tossed it at Mordon’s feet.

“A useless goblin should have a useless hat to match,” the friend said.

“More than useless,” the first said. “Not even a guard. Can’t do anything right.”

“Doesn’t even need a costume to be a monster,” the friend agreed.

Mordon’s hand froze as he reached for the hat, and he curled deeper into himself. Monster. Right. That’s all he was. All he had ever been. Ugly, clumsy, stupid. What was he _doing_ , pretending he was anything else?

But…but Graham had said he wasn’t one. Words of a king were important. Maybe…maybe Mordon didn’t have to be one anymore, now. “I’m not a monster,” he said, cautiously, trying the words out and not sure how they felt in his mouth, worried it was another lie, words that didn’t count.

“’Course you are. Huge. Ugly. No one wants you to play. You wanna know why? You break everything. All the props, all the games. You don’t fit. You should wear that stupid human hat and go play with the stupid humans. They might actually want you.”

“That’s not—” Mordon twisted the hat brim in his hands, words swirling around him.

In the stories, monsters were killed. The wolf, the fox. Monsters were hated and hunted. Wearing a costume, playing a game: that was different. But he wasn’t wearing a costume. He was Mordon. And he was a monster. Something to be hated and feared.

Words spoken, words written, those mattered. Those were _true_.

But the king had said…

Mordon pulled the hat over his helmet. The human king had told him they were in this together. That he wasn’t a monster. He was wanted, at least by the humans. And he would follow in Graham’s footsteps, wearing the hat that had been special to him, the hat that had led to the crown.

And he was going to give it back. This hat wasn’t trash—it was a prize. This hat represented the surface. Exploration, courage. The king would be so excited to see the hat that nothing else would matter. This was what he had been looking for, this was the gift that would prove his value. Mordon would be praised, and the new words would cancel the old ones, like rewriting an ending. The hero of the story, not the villain. Saved, not lost.

Mordon stiffly walked past his friends, into the tunnel the king had followed. They laughed and thumped him hard as he passed. He fell and scraped against the stone, bones rattling. His armor stopped him from tearing his skin too badly on the rough ground, but it still startled and hurt. He slid forward, stopping just in front of the broken book thrown on the ground. A story abandoned in the dirt.

The spine had cracked, as Mordon had feared. Gingerly, he pushed himself to his knees and cradled the injured text. That wasn’t how you treated a story.

He read the page it had fallen open to.

_You’re pretty big for a goblin,_ Graham had said.

_Where are you from?_ Graham had said.

_Do you ever take your helmet off_? Graham had said.

“Don’t even think he is a goblin,” the first said to his friend as they walked away, leaving Mordon frozen, the book clutched in shaking hands, Graham’s adventuring cap slipping from his helmet.

* * *

The tunnels behind the library were lined with stories. Graham slipped past more stages where the goblins had set up ratty scenes. A kitchen, a parlor, an attic, a forest. Lots of wood and shoddy paintwork, all ghostly in desolate emptiness. They felt ignored, more broken toys that the goblins didn’t want to play with anymore. It made the hair rise on the back of his neck. Manny might be down there, or he might not be, and there could be something else more dangerous around the next corner.

And the delay hadn’t given him any clearer ideas about how he was going to break what he had learned with Mordon. He’d run it back and forth, getting tangled up in words and scenarios. Too many conflicting ideas. Too many doubts. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he hadn’t seen anything true, maybe he’d jumped to some outlandish conclusion. But what if he was right? It was his duty to defend his citizens. But Mordon wasn’t a Daventry citizen, he belonged to the goblin kingdom. Right? Wrong? His thoughts were twisting into circles even as he felt like he was wandering physically in circles through broken story after broken story.

This wasn’t worth getting lost over. Were the minutes turning to hours? He didn’t know how much time had passed on his useless venture, on his meandering ideas, and Mordon was going to be upset.

He couldn’t have anticipated just how upset Mordon was.

The goblin was kneeling on the floor, holding a book.

Shredding the pages.

Graham skidded to a halt.

“You left me,” Mordon said. His voice was utterly cold, thick with suppressed tears. “You promised.”

It must have been so much longer than Graham had thought. “Mordon? Mordon, I…I was coming back. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be gone so long, I didn’t mean to scare you, I—”

Mordon jumped to his feet, clutching the book. Fistfuls of torn pages fell from his lap, twisting and curling into an ugly heap of destroyed words. One page was untouched. He showed this page to Graham.

The changeling story. The goblin prank. Swapping a human child for a goblin child.

“You knew.”

Graham stepped back. Any chance, any ideas, melted into the shadows, slipped from his grasp.

“You knew!”

“No, no, I…I. I didn’t…not until…oh, no.” But even without that book, he had known, hadn’t he? From the moment he’d seen Mordon outside the cell, he had felt it. Had realized something strange was happening. And hadn’t dared let himself realize.

“I am not a monster. I am not a goblin. I am a human being!” Mordon stepped forward again. And again. And he dropped the fragmented book, and his hands curled into fists, and he _screamed,_ “You _knew_. Not a monster. Not a goblin. Human. Human that _no one wanted._ ” He tore down the tunnel toward Graham, shrieking, “You knew _. You knew._ ”

“It’s…it’s only a story.” Immediately Graham knew he’d said the wrong thing, the worst thing, had snuffed out the very last traces of hope in just four desperate and misspoken and confused words, knew it was horrible to say to a goblin, wished he could swallow the words back, paint them out, but it was too late.

Words spoken mattered.

_“It’s never only a story!”_

Mordon was on him now, and Graham was trying to move further back into the tunnel when he tripped over something in the dark, some rock or his own cloak tangled around his knees, and he collapsed. He curled into a ball. This was going to _hurt_.

“That’s why Mordon’s not like others!” Mordon wailed.

“No, no, no, please, I promise I didn’t know, no, don’t,” Graham yelped. This was it. His friends were going to _die_ because of him. Because of his mistakes. If he’d only come back to Mordon immediately, told him what he knew, promised to protect him, if they had gone straight to the goblin king, but he _hadn’t_. If only, if only. Because of his foolishness. Because of his inaction, because of his fear, because of his nightmares, because of everything. _Home,_ shattered, ruined, _gone_.

But the blows never came.

Mordon flung the adventuring cap, the prize of freedom, of innocent exploration and discovery and protection, at Graham’s feet. The hat that he’d been so excited to find, the hat that had meant so much. And then he _ran._

Graham picked up the hat. Crumpled it against his chest. Hoarse, upset, lost, afraid. Alone. “No.”


	5. Hands to Hold and Hope

_Much, much later_ :

Two old men stare blankly at each other. They stand in the tunnels beneath Daventry, in the old well where Graham’s journey to knighthood had begun; where his journey to kinghood had been completed; where Manny had hidden for years; where Mordon—Mordack, now—had grown out of his goblin armor. The waterfalls splash and echo oddly in the cold, empty caves. There used to be a dragon in here. Before Manny let it out to wreak havoc on the lands above. There used to be a lot in here. And now there’s just the king and the goblin and the memories.

“Look, before you do his test of strength or whatever,” Mordack says, looking down at his feet. “I need to know. Do you remember the goblin caves? When the villagers were taken? And we met? Did you…you really didn’t know? That I was…not a goblin?”

Graham blinks, startled. “Mordack, that was fifty years ago.”

“Yeah. I know.” As though he hasn’t thought about it every night since then. He tries to play it casual. “But. Did you know?”

A hesitation. Graham stares at the nearby waterfall, at the little cave with the stained alchemy tables and worn fragments of life. Then: “No. I didn’t know. Not at first. I suspected, I truly did, and for that I take the blame, but I had no proof. Not until it was too late. I wish….” He can’t seem to find the right words.

The two men look at each other across years, and it’s uneasy, this not knowing what might have happened if Mordack had become a Daventry citizen that night. If Manny (once considered Mordon’s favorite illustrator, a champion of stories) hadn’t stopped him from going to Graham’s castle after he’d calmed down. If he had grown up with Graham instead of Manny. If things had changed in just that one tiny moment.

The pause stretches on and on.

Mordack clears his throat. “You’d better go find that crystal. Follow the signs. Manny’s made it very clear.”

“Yes, he has.” Graham leaves slowly, quietly.

Mordack stands for a long time, waiting. And when Graham doesn’t return, not for minutes, not for hours, he sinks to his knees helplessly and stares into the water.

* * *

At the end of the story, all three men stand on the Floating Island. Around them, goblins crowd the audience stands, jeering and applauding and pushing each other and generally causing trouble. Graham and Manny (he prefers Manannan these days) are glaring daggers at each other. Or at least, Manannan is. Graham just looks…tired. He’s been playing all the games, performing as demanded, and drunk frankly silly amounts of wine in this final challenge. (So has Manannan, but Graham is showing his exhaustion more, doesn’t have magic to bolster him up like the wizard.) Somehow that hasn’t dulled the old king at the puzzles: he’s successfully avoided every dose of hypnotic powder hidden in some of the cups. (But so has Manannan.)

The New and Improved Duel of Wits is nearing its end. Mordack is off to one side, guarding the crystal Manannan is using as his power base, the crystal giving the wizard power and strength. Guarding it in case Graham tries something heroic and foolish.

Mordack knows what the final test is. Knows someone is going to die.

And he’s not sure who he wants it to be.

In truth, he knows he exchanged one set of chains for another when he teamed up with Manannan. Ordered to act against Daventry. To raise a kidnapped prince as a slave, to train a dragon to burn on command, to manipulate and twist an ice queen into a pawn—with nothing but abuse and threats as a reward. Cruelty and mockery. Never the soft words of a family, not from Manannan. Just bitter schemes in the night and anger in the morning. Hopeless and helpless.

But Graham hadn’t ever tried to reach out to him and rescue him, either. Not that Mordack had ever asked, ever indicated he was struggling.

And anyway, Mordack didn’t deserve rescuing. Not after what he had done to Graham in anger and hate. How he had tried so hard to rip the king’s happiness away, tried to make him feel that cold despair.

He touches the sharp slashes across his cheek. Four long and deep scars that Graham himself struck during one of Manannan’s schemes. The injury had been triggered in self-defense: Mordack would have killed Graham and his family if Graham hadn’t lashed out with magic in that one desperate, clawing moment. That strike across Mordack’s face had distracted him long enough to lose the fight. Had saved the royal family from a cruel fate, had protected the kingdom. But Mordack still wears the scars like a flag.

The pain of being slashed haunts his nightmares. The king, fending off a monster.

No more than Mordack deserves.

No monster deserves to be saved. The wolf, the fox, hated and hunted.

No, this is for the best. This is a fair contest. Whoever wins, wins, and that’ll be that.

And the last two cups are nasty. It’s a half and half chance. One will win, and one will be poisoned.

( _I hope it’s Graham._ )

One will die.

( _I hope it’s Manannan._ )

One will win the kingdom.

( _I don’t know what I want._ )

They can’t puzzle their way out of this. The cups are identical in every detail—other than the crucial poison lurking in one of them. Graham has the first choice. Like he did when he was young. Two cups, and a kingdom between them. Literally. A magical rendition, as real as the real country, is displayed on the table, another silent witness to this story’s end. Mordack watches the old king make a choice, watches him drink. They wait a moment, but Graham starts to smile—it tasted clear and clean. Poisonless. He’s won. The audience cheers, not caring who wins but just pleased that the game has been good.

But of course Manannan won’t play fair. He picks up the poisoned cup, waves it at Graham almost playfully—but instead of drinking it and accepting his fate like he was meant to, he tips it over.

The poison _gloops_ out of the cup. It will drip into that magical image of Daventry, curse deeper than any other curse could. The once cheerful and bright kingdom will turn to ashes and hatred. He’d rather destroy everything than let Graham win.

Mordack can tell what happens next is an impulse. Graham lunges across the table, knocks the cup back, and all the poison absorbs into his hands in a crackle of green light. He stares at his hands, at the flashing, curling scars twirling across his worn fingers before fading to look like old scars, white and raised against his skin.

He will die. Slowly, perhaps, but that’s that. He lost. He won, but he lost.

Manannan is taken aback, but he rallies. “Huh. Nice move. I’ll accept that,” he says, and then he raises his hand, “but let’s see if I can help speed up the effects.”

His fingers snap.

Graham shrieks, weakened by poison, by stress, by wine, by everything, and helpless to defend himself. Cruel magic takes hold.

The old king is the puppet Manannan always wanted, now. The strings might not be visible to the naked eye, but Mordack has been around enough of Manannan’s magic to imagine it. He can picture the sticky green strands wrapped around the king’s arms, legs, torso, neck, tighter than any goblin rope, impossible to break. Manannan laughs as he throws the king across the stage with just a flick of his wrist, smashing him against the ground, against the tables—wine cups roll, spilling their hypnotic contents across the grass and fizzling. Mordack is sure he can hear the king’s arm break as he hurtles helplessly against the ground again and again, the snap echoing in his ears.

_Graham smiled at you._

_No one had ever smiled at you before. Just bared teeth and growls and insults and usually a kick or several._

Graham might be unconscious—his head has lolled forward on his chest. No smiles now.

His body is slack. The one arm is definitely broken, awkward and loose looking. There might be more broken pieces. It’s hard to be sure. Manannan is holding him high in the air now, pausing, considering what he wants to do next.

_Graham waved at you._

_A gentle hand, raised to greet you, to acknowledge you._

But the arm’s broken now.

“You’ve already won!” Mordack cries. “There’s no need to torture him.”

Manannan ignores him, flinging the king high and yanking him down again.

Bully. Hurting someone who can’t fight back. Thumping again and again and again.

Selfless. Graham lunged across the table to catch the cup, to lose everything and save everything. _He reached out and touched your bruised arm, the lightest of affirmations._ Fingers that now drip with poison, with the curse, with death—but in the goblin caves they had been full of life. They still were full of life. They protected, those hands. They had saved Daventry at such a cost.

 _He insulted the stories._ Mordack had spent his life since that moment with that book hating how he’d been given hope and hating how that hope had been ripped from him so quickly. Hating the king.

_He made a mistake. That shouldn’t be the end._

_You’re not a mistake, either._

“Leave him be. I won’t ask you again.” Mordack’s voice is deep in his throat, a goblin grumble, and it seems to echo around the platform.

“I always guessed you’d side with him,” Manannan says, grinning darkly in his moment of triumph. “It was only a matter of time. You’re a useless monster, with no loyalty. I guess it’s time I held your tongue, too.” One hand still holds the king, but the other hand reaches out and snaps.

_It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts._

Pain erupts through Mordack’s body, hot and cold and agonizing. Crackles and snaps along his muscles, freezing him in place, blinding him, and he can’t even cry out, can’t move, can’t breathe. He scrambles to focus, fighting against an invisible enemy that has him utterly pinned down from within his soul.

Monster. Just a monster. Pitiful and weak, never better than an unwanted, abandoned human shrouded in goblin armor.

_It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts!_

Manannan is enjoying watching Mordack writhe and twist. The smile grows wider, more pleased than he’s been in years. A bleak smile, barred and fanged and deadly. Graham is limp in the magic’s grip, eyes closed—can’t tell if he’s breathing or not anymore.

Mordack can feel himself losing consciousness too. It hurts to breathe. If he could just close his eyes and sleep, it wouldn’t hurt anymore. He wouldn’t feel anymore. This betrayal from his master—his brother, the goblin who swapped places with him all those years ago—wouldn’t mean anything anymore.

No loyalty.

But the king…

Maybe there were different types of monsters. Maybe there were different loyalties. Different truths. Maybe he wanted to know. Maybe it wasn't too late to find out.

Mordack yanks against the magic that wraps around his wrists, forces his way past the pain (it couldn’t hurt worse than it already is; what’s another searing agony compared to all the rest), raises his hand high above his head, curls it into a fist, and slams down against the crystal. It shatters, shards flying in all directions, sharp edges cutting his hands. The sound is almost pleasant, a ringing chime, like music. He can feel the magic rushing through him, streaming beyond his fingers and curling into the sky.

Instantly, Manannan’s hands drop, and Graham and Mordack collapse like puppets with cut strings, and Manannan reaches out to Mordack and the crystal, screaming, but it’s too late, much, much too late, and the loosed magic is overwhelming, and it turns on him and rips through him and he loses control, loses everything, and then…the wizard is simply gone, consumed by his own magic. Gone in a puff of smoke.

Mordack pushes himself to his knees. Feels sick. But his head is quickly clearing without the magic tearing against him. He can’t rest. Not yet.

He runs to the king. To Graham. He kneels, reaches out, freezes, recoils, hesitates, reaches again, gently touches. Graham moans, barely conscious, and Mordack pushes closer, pulls the king toward him, mindful of the broken arm, of the blossoming bruises, of the pain.

The world is still. He can’t hear anything. Can’t feel anything but the weight of the king in his arms.

Graham opens his eyes. They’re blurred, dizzy, hazy.

“King? Ohh, fairy tale king?” Mordack whispers, cradling him, feeling like a child again, lost and alone in the caves. “Graham?”

“Who…?” Graham’s voice is breathless, his eyes still unfocused.

“I am…Mordon.”

Graham blinks, considers, and then the focus comes back into his eyes. Recognition blazes across his face as he remembers, as he realizes, and he smiles. “Not Mordack?”

“No, not Mordack, not anymore. Come on, easy now,” Mordon says, draping Graham’s good arm over his shoulder, helping him stand. They stumble against each other, and Graham winces, but Mordon steadies them, and he turns toward Daventry castle. “I’ve got you. You’re with me. Let’s get you home.”


End file.
